Winter all around
by lil-disaster
Summary: So our favourite winter soldier gets an impetus towards remembering and runs off to a foreign country to hide with no specific plan. He manages to meet a number of nice and genial people but ends up living with a not-so-nice and caring person. Also I thought about a place where people only hear about superhero stuff from TV and perceive it as fiction. Welcome to "normal" life,Bucky


A cargo plane he entered after a visit to Smithsonian and days-long pondering and trying to make his brain remember has just landed. He did not bother to check the destination before the take-off - the flight was international and that had been enough for the time being. Now that he swiftly entered the storage facility, he could not help wondering and analysing.  
Firstly, the weird sing-songy language did not ring any bells - it was neither Russian, nor English.  
Secondly, even though he was not in Russia, it was damn cold outside.  
Thirdly, the signs and indicators were both in the local language and in English - a very fortunate turn of events, even though his skill set ensured his survival anywhere, signs or no signs.  
He studied the quaint lettering on the nearest sign: some symbols were not familiar. An "a" had a small circle above and and "o" was crossed out. The next sign even contained a weird fusion of two "e"s, one of them turned by 180 degrees.  
The man followed the path labeled by a "storage room" sign, only to find a locked metal door on his way. The door was closed and no signs of presence came from inside: no noises, no light, no nothing. The place looked almost deserted now that he thought of it. He looked around and found the wires - the door was secured by some kind of alarm system. Lack of people and alarms… these were all too familiar. He had to focus on the task at hand to distract himself from slipping into a "search and destroy mode".  
Another thing that helped him relax was the obvious gap in security - there was a ventilation window wide enough for him to enter the room and low enough so that he could jump there pushing off the opposite wall. It was a ridiculous omission and a person in charge of security systems here had to be at least sacked, but preferably severely punish… He caught himself mid-thought - he was not with them anymore and had to abandon their ways altogether to try and find a man almost wiped from inside him. This man was still there - it could only be him that indicated what was appropriate and normal (that still left a lot to be defined) and what was by no means acceptable - like killing people for their mistakes (which came naturally this time).  
He squeezed inside and slid on the floor trying to make as little noise as possible. Ninety percent sure there were no more safety devices he double checked every possible place they could have been found. There were none. He found a flashlight on a shelf by the door - a number of them sat there waiting, along with a dozen bottles of water and a radio. They were not prepared for thieves and other intruders, but strangely had foreseen a blackout.  
He found a sign with incomprehensible "Forsinket bagasje" on it and realized that he found what he had hoped for - a room full of dusty travel bags. He did not want to steal (his conscience was both new and familiar, and attempts to reconcile the feelings made his head hurt) but had to get by in the freezing surrounding and lost baggage could just be the answer.  
He found a backpack, a set of slightly too big boots, a thick jacket and a pair of dark jeans. There was also a strange but comfortable jacket with a hood on it, a set of not matching socks. He barely fit his shoulders in the jacket, it clung like a second skin while the jeans were quite loose around his waist but all of this did not matter - he wore civilian clothes and was sure that he was not going to suffer from hypothermia, which meant he could be on the run for as long as it takes. He had to desire to ponder on the actual length of that period.  
He zipped up all the bags, setting them in the initial order, put on a black knitted cap and a pair of thick gloves and made his way back. His hand hovered over the shelf and finally made its way back to the pocket - with the flashlight still clutched in his palm. He made a mental notch to bring it back - not that stealing it was a major crime, but no crime was consistent with his new knowledge of his old self. He made his way back through the window, evaded a couple of men in bright fluorescent vests and ventured in the open. As far as he could see, the tarmac was empty except for a white plane with an out-of-place red tip in the far end of the cement field.  
He jumped over the fence - no additional protection besides a 2 meters of metal wire - and strolled to the city visible to the north.  
After a half an hour walk on the roadside, during which only three cars passed by him, he found out that he was either in a really small town or in some kind of a suburb. All he could see in the distance were single- or two-storey buildings, trees and snow.  
He spent the next half an hour wandering around the streets, trying to guess where he was and why it was so empty around there. The first group of people he saw were three men, one of them had his hand in a cast, that stood by a big truck loaded with white cans. They were arguing and looking inside the cars but making no moves to enter it.  
He was noticed as he walked on the opposite side of the street, and one of the men, a grey-haired old man that looked around 80 waved him over and shouted something. The newcomer paused contemplating his options. Running won't do, it could only draw unwanted attention, there was also no reason to fight an old man and an already injured person, they did not pose a threat. He could still go his way, pretending not to hear, but the old man already moved toward him across the street. Walking did not come easy to him, he was limping on his left leg and had a general image of fragility elderly people tend to have.  
The newcomer sighed and hurried to the stranger congratulating himself on a new piece of information regarding old people that came out of the blue - he was positive he could not recall meeting any actual people of that age and state of health. Yet he just knew. Strange, but not unpleasant to know something firsthand.  
"Hej! Candoo yelpey uss?" - the old man seemed to ask.  
The man with a backpack furrowed his brow and was treated to a repeated question. He still did not understand what was said but could swear his was expected to help.  
"Do you happen to speak English?" - he asked after an inner debate on what language to use.  
"He does not, but I do," - interrupted a man with a cast.  
"I speak too". - An old man shot him a glance. - "But only a little".  
"Right. So, we do not have time for pleasantries. We really need help with those" - he waived at the cans - "I broke my bloody arm, uncle is too old for this and Ole here cannot unload them alone. We have half an hour before the shop opens, so we will pay you 200 krones for your help. If you make it in time by some miracle I'll make it a thousand."  
They had an accent that left a hint of melodic aftertaste to the words, though the old man was heavy on the "r"s. And their currency was krones… But unfortunately it gave the newcomer no idea as to where he had landed. Still, money meant food, clothes and probably housing so much needed in this winter kingdom. He also found the idea of earning his living and providing for himself extremely appealing.  
"Sure" - he shrugged, dropped his backpack by the door and got to work, following instructions given by the man in a cast and Ole's gestures. The cans were not that heavy and he could have unloaded them alone, but that would have obviously drawn attention to him for Ole was neither small nor weak judging by his appearance.  
By the time they took the last can to the shop's back room, the clock on a wall showed 8-53. The old man had his nose buried in some ledger, but as Ole plopped on a chair nearby, he looked up, double checked the time on his watch and yelled something, then turned to his new employee, who has just returned with a backpack.  
"Your name, kid? What your name?"  
"James" - answered the man.  
"Olaf", - an old man pressed a finger to his chest, then pointed at James' partner and somewhere in direction of the shop. "That Ole. And Lars". For some reason the last name sounded like "lash".  
James just nodded, but that was not enough - Ole rose from his chair, took off a glove and extended his right arm. After a small pause James followed his intuition and repeated the man's actions.  
By the time this small exchange was over, Lars came back to the room with four bottles of dark glass in his hands. He winked at them and threw two bottles at James and Ole, then placed one in front of the old man.  
"Skol'" - he whispered. "We have to make this day better. I almost started like…" he paused as if trying to come up with a word. "Shit!"  
James studied the bottle. It had a word "øl" on a label. An on it's top rim there was a faint line "Best Norwegian beer. Since 1845".  
So was he in Norway?  
"This is beer. Really good!" - Lars waved a bottle in front of him. "It's alright to drink when you've started your work already"  
James tried to remember what he knew about beer. Apparently, it had to be good. He uncapped the bottle and took a sip. And then something went wrong. His brain filled with alarm and confusion - the drink was not beer. It was too… He did not know what property differed and from what, but he was convinced beer tasted some other way. His first instinct was to throw the bottle away and turn at the men, demand what that was and what they wanted. But he sensed no poison, no harm coming from the bitter liquid. There must have been confusion written all over his face, because the men laughed, spoke in their language and Lars translated for him: "You're an American, right? You have some coloured water for beer, this might be too strong for you".  
"Am not American" - denied James.  
"Alright. The beer in England is shit too".  
James just shrugged.  
"Alright, I owe you a thousand kronor" - Lars digged in his pocket and fished out a thick wallet. The bill was white and purple-ish with a portrait of some man printed over it. James pocketed the bill and thanked Lars.  
"So, what are you doing here?" - asked the employer.  
"Travel".  
"Ow, good. And bad. I hoped you could help us out for some time"  
"Why not?"  
"So don't you have to be somewhere?"  
"Not really. I can do some work for you."  
"This thing will be with me for a month, no less" - Lars banged his cast on the edge of a table, which made Olaf purse his lips and shake his head disapprovingly. "Do you live far?"  
"I have just come, I have to find a place"  
"So you haven't booked anything?"  
James just shook his head no. He was quickly getting tired of company, their noise and attention overwhelming him.  
"We don't have accommodation nearby, only in the center, it is like half a hour ride on car and over 40 minutes on bus. I really doubt you'll commute here and back for money that do not cover your housing…" Lars shook his head and James suddenly wondered how much 1000 krones could buy.  
Ole asked something and Lars and Olaf engaged the conversation in Norwegian that James did not understand. He did not try to either way, too engrossed in sifting through his problems: cold, lack of money, housing. And chances to get by in a country speaking another language.  
Ole called someone and after a couple of minutes of talking nodded at Lars.  
"So, um, James, how about you help me with the stores every morning from 7 to 9 for a fee of 200 kronor a day and Ole's brother-in-law gives you a place to live? It's a half of a house, small but free. There's another owner by she doesn't live here and doesn't mind that someone else might use the place if they stay out of her room and keep the house tidy".  
"That would be great" - nodded James, suppressing the nagging feeling that things went too smoothly to be true, that there must be a catch.  
"Alright, dude! Come here in two hours and I'll give you the keys"  
James thanked all of the men, shook Ole's hand once more upon his insistence and went out, zipping up his coat on his neck. The last thing he heard was the voice of Olaf "Hvorfor bor han ikke der?"


End file.
